


Hogmanay

by Owl_by_Night



Series: Twelve days of (multi fandom) Christmas [8]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22048957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owl_by_Night/pseuds/Owl_by_Night
Summary: Collins keeps talking about everything he's missing, being away from home on New Year's Eve.  Fortunately, Farrier has a plan.
Relationships: Collins/Farrier (Dunkirk)
Series: Twelve days of (multi fandom) Christmas [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580002
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Hogmanay

**Author's Note:**

> The First Foot is meant to be the first person over the threshold at new year and should preferably be a tall, dark man.

It’s one in the morning on the first of January 1940 and Farrier is standing outside Collins’ door, debating whether to knock. Everyone else is asleep, or at least retired to their rooms after seeing in the new year. He’s got a coal in his hand, his flask with a bit of whiskey and a jam tart from supper in his pocket like a fool. 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he reminds himself, and taps at the door. He can still make it a joke if he needs to, say he’s just teasing after Collins wouldn’t shut up about missing Hogmanay. If it turns out Farrier is mistaken and he’s not interested in anything more. 

From behind the door Farrier thinks he hears a muttered ‘fuck off’ so he taps again and then Collins appears. He’s in pyjamas already, with a jumper and dressing gown over them because the temperature is arctic at night. His hair sticking up vertically at the back. He looks bewildered, as if he half expects a prank, and certainly wasn’t expecting Farrier. 

“Are you going to let me in?” Farrier asks. He glances meaningfully down the deserted corridor. He really shouldn’t be wandering the corridors this late. 

“Oh I... yes.” Collins swings the door wide and Farrier steps in. The room is tiny, perhaps once intended as a broom cupboard, and has only the one bed so it’s private enough but the two of them fill all of the space. Farrier closes the door behind them and Collins darts a nervous tongue over his lips. 

“What did you want?” Collins asks, “I mean, why are you here?”

“For luck,” Farrier says. “I’m dark enough, though not as tall as you.”

“I... oh...I don’t...” Collins is uncharacteristically lost for words, fiddling with the cord of his dressing gown. He runs a hand over his hair to try and flatten it. 

“You told me yourself what the First Foot was meant to do. Here, coal for your fire.” Farrier hands him the piece, nicked from the tiny stove in the mess, and Collins laughs. They both do, and it could just be the stupidity of bringing a single lump of coal to this icy little room with no fireplace, but for the way that Collins looking at Farrier. It gives him reason to hope that he might get a better reaction than a punch to the face at least. 

“Food for your table,” he continues, hoping he’s not making a fool of himself or worse. He deposits the crumbled tart on the desk, his fingers gone suddenly clumsy, “and a drink. I wanted... I wanted you to have good luck Collins. For the year to come.” 

He’s no good at this. No good at the words, or the uncertainty. He holds out the flask dumbly and waits. 

Collins steps forward to take it, but doesn’t step back. He’s too close, so that Farrier can see the flutter of his pulse in his neck. Too deliberately close to be misinterpreted. He takes a sip and Farrier watches him swallow, watches him lick a drop from his lips. Collins doesn’t step away. 

“I’m not getting this wrong, am I?” he asks softly, “you want...”

Farrier opens his mouth but the words don’t quite form. He nods. 

Collins closes the half a step between them and presses his mouth to Farrier’s. Gentle at first. Collins tastes of whiskey and mint toothpaste and Farrier has to tilt his head up to reach. He puts his hand up to Collins’ face and the kiss becomes more. Sweeter and fiercer, it promises good things to come. He can feel the warmth and strength of Collins’ body against him and the confident way Collins holds him. Not a novice then. God, he’s been waiting a long time for this and thank God his instinct wasn’t wrong. 

Collins breaks the kiss slowly, pulling back an inch. There’s a smudge of coal dust on his face and a hopeful expression that takes Farrier’s breath away. “Reckon I’m lucky enough already,” he says. 

“Don’t say that,” Farrier tells him, voice turned rough, “you’re a pilot now, you never know when you might need it.”

Farrier begins the first morning of January 1940 waking up under the weight of Collins in a too small bed. It’s not suited to Collins’ height, pillowed as he is on Farrier’s chest, or to the width of Farrier’s shoulder, but compared to the cockpit of a Spitfire it’s comfortable enough. 

He’s warm too, for the first time this winter. Collins is like a bloody furnace. It’s still dark outside. Farrier doesn’t want to get up, even though he must. 

“Come on,” he says, giving Collins a gentle nudge. Collins mumbles something incoherent but lets him go and Farrier shifts out from under him and into the freezing air. 

There’s no point to lingering after that because it’s too damned cold. He pulls on his chilled uniform, ready to sneak back to his own room and pretend he’s just woken early. Collins is asleep again, snoring gently with his face buried in the pillow. Farrier can’t quite bear to leave without saying something. He kneels by the bed and shakes Collins’ shoulder. 

“Best of luck, Collins,” he says, and kisses him. 

Then he goes, out onto the icy airfield, whistling into the morning air.


End file.
